Mark Rogers - The Dead

“What?” Father Chuck breathed.

“We need priests. There’s a new church starting. Big demand for the Eucharist. If you’ll just give yourself up, we’ll make it easy on you. Translate you painlessly. You can be one of us. One of the elite.”

“Never,” Father Chuck said.

“Never’s a very long time-and we’re going to get you sooner or later. But you shouldn’t get up on your high horse in any case. Sounding so adamant doesn’t become you. You were always one of us.”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t lose your temper!” Father Ted laughed. “It’s really not so bad, seeing yourself for what you really are. It’s like being born again, if you’ll excuse the Protestantism. Once I was washed in the blood-my own, of course-I simply realized what side I was on. Just as you will.”

“Father Chuck,” Dennis said, “I don’t hear them down at the other end anymore. Maybe we can just get the hell out of here. “

“You can’t get the hell out of here,” Father Ted put in. “This is Hell. Or at least as much of it as flesh can perceive. They’ll be waiting for you back there anyway. So why don’t you just stay right where you are?” He began tugging on the bars. “I should be through these in a minute or two.”

“Damn you!” Father Chuck cried.

“Why, Chuck,” the corpse laughed, “you know perfectly well I’m already damned. Just like you. What was the verdict in your dream? Or have you deliberately forgotten?” With a powerful jerk, Father Ted managed to bend two of the bars outward.

Loosing a low cry, Father Chuck moved past Dennis and rammed his shoe against the corpse’s gripping fingers.

“Do that again,” Father Ted said paternally, still tugging away, “and you’re going to be very sorry.”

“Come on, Father,” Dennis said, plucking at Father Chuck, but the priest only kicked at Father Ted’s hand again.

“Well,” Father Ted went on, never slackening in his efforts, “if you won’t think of yourself, at least think of me. This was a special mission for me. Legion even gave me my old voice back. You should hear how I sound the other way, with my face like this…He’s going to be very angry…”

“You bastard!” Father Chuck screamed. “You’re the reason I’m here! You and all your damned lies!”

“That was Max Holland’s attitude,” Father Ted said, snapping one of the bars. “But he’s reconciled to me now. We’re both pulling for the same team. As for you and me, we’re going to have a splendid time.”

“Father, dammit, let’s go!” Dennis cried, just as the corpse pried another bar loose.

Father Chuck nodded and turned. They headed back up the pipe as fast as they could.

“You’re not going to make it!” Father Ted called after them. “If the boys at the other end don’t get you, I will!”

As if to emphasize his point, there was another ringing crack of torn metal.

Head aching furiously, Max woke.

He was above ground. There was still some daylight.

Tied to a chair with baling wire, he sat in the middle of a street. Lying in front of him was Mr. MacAleer, bound with wire, on his stomach and naked from the waist down. His face was turned toward Max; he seemed unconscious,

Dozens of corpses stood near. The bone wolves paced in and out among them as if impatient to be off on the hunt.

Off in the distance, he could see a huge shape looming up above the dead. The same scorched color as the bonewolves, it looked like some sort of midden raised on pillar-like legs. It swayed slightly, protruding spikes shifting and bristling on its surface.

More bones , Max thought. Had the wolves been made from pieces of it?

“Max!” came Legion’s voice, on his left. “You’re awake. Won’t have to use the smelling salts. On you, that is.”

Legion moved past him, crouched by MacAleer and crunched a white capsule by his nose. MacAleer’s face twisted. His eyelids fluttered, snapped open.

“Just couldn’t bring yourself to go back for this piece of shit, huh, Max?” Legion asked. “Can’t say I blame you. Wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Not for him .”

MacAleer groaned, eyes still glazed. Legion signaled. A corpse strode up carrying a can of gasoline. Max gasped with recognition.

The corpse met his gaze briefly-then turned its head.

“Dad,” Max said.

“Yep,” Legion said, rising. “Dear old dad.”

Max Sr. opened the container.

“Just the legs,” Legion told him.

Max Sr. began splashing the fuel onto MacAleer.

“I have something in mind for him,” Legion said. “A little bit of sculpture… But in the meantime we can all have a good laugh at him.”

Finishing, Max Sr. retreated. Legion produced a pack of matches, made as if to strike one. Max looked away.

Immediately two fetid hands took hold of his head, forced his face back toward MacAleer. He closed his eyes. Two more hands pried his lids open.

“Yeah, Max, I want you to watch this,” Legion said. “You burned up my chief assistant back there in that garage. Really pissed me off. I want you to get a good idea of what fire does to flesh. Before we light you up.”

“Max,” MacAleer moaned. “You left me, Max…”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Legion asked Max. “The last name he called down there was yours. Not His-” Legion pointed heavenward. “Pretty strange for a Christian. I know the Nine Billion Names all too well, and Max isn’t one of them.” He crouched again, staring at MacAleer. “Lose your faith, Bob, old pal?”

“No,” MacAleer answered, not looking at him.

“You know what I think?” Legion asked. “I think you never had any to begin with.”

“No,” MacAleer said.

“Well, then,” Legion said, rising once more, “why don’t we just put it to the test?” He struck the match. “Here it comes, Bob.”

Laughing, he tossed it onto MacAleer’s legs. They ignited with a whoosh.

MacAleer howled, tried to roll the flames out. Legion’s followers rushed forward, grabbed him by the shoulders, held him down.

“Noisy bastard, isn’t he?” Legion asked Max.

“Jesus!” MacAleer shrieked.

Legion clapped. “What about Him, Bob?” he cried. “What do you think of Him now?”

MacAleer thrashed and wailed. Max could see large patches of his skin bubbling beneath the flames. The blisters began to burst. Sizzling fluid squirted out of the fire, spattered steaming on the asphalt.

Max wanted to roll his eyes back, but try as he might to keep himself from seeing, MacAleer’s agony remained on the fringe of sight. And there was no way at all to block out that pungent odor, that roast-pork smell…

“Jesus Christ!” MacAleer howled.

“Don’t see Him anywhere around here,” Legion laughed. “Just what you’d expect, though.”

“Jesus!” MacAleer screamed.

“Do you think He’s going to help you ?” Legion asked. “You stupid shit! He wrote you off. Right the fuck out of the Book of Life.”

“Oh, my God…”

“He’s shitting all over you, Bob. He hates your nasty little worm-eaten soul. You don’t believe, you never believed, and He hates you! Why do you think you’re burning now?”

“Lord, Lord, LORD…”

“You think He’ll listen if you say it louder each time? He sees through you, you little cocksucking maggot. You’re a vessel fit for wrath. He smelled the rot in you even before He made you. Before He set the stars in their courses, He wanted you shrieking in Hell. Before He opened His mouth and vomited the Word, He was shitting on your face.”

“No!”

“But you’ve known it all along, haven’t you? So why don’t you get a little of your own back? Tell Him what you think of Him. Grab yourself a little satisfaction. Because I’m telling you, shithead, it’s the last you’ll ever get. For all eternity, the last. You’re not even going to get in on the killing. We’re seeing to that now. So you’d better piss on His name, Bob. Right on His fucking scum-covered sacred heart. Curse Him and die. Curse Him and die. Curse Him and die…”